Opposites Attract
by The Night Blogger
Summary: Sherlock spends half his life wondering if there's anyone quite like him, but spends the other half immersing himself in people most definitely not. But, quite possibly, what he really needs is someone new. Cassie has been carted off to Baker Street to separate herself from the streets, but she finds herself facing a whole new kind of addiction. No fixed pairings. Or plans. Hurhur.


**Okay so before you read this there are some things you need to know. First, this was not originally meant to be published, it was just the first chapter of a character development project I've been working on and then took a liking and decided to put it on here. Second, this story does heavily revolve around an OC, so if you're not keen of that kind of thing, sorry. Third, I don't actually have a plan. Yeah, professional, I know. I'm sort of going with the flow, so if you have any suggestions feel free to say. Fourth, this is just a test chapter to get the feel for my OC. Meaning no Sherlock. Or John. But I promise they will become central roles later on! Fifth, I am more than happy to receive criticism - in fact, I'd love it, especially if it's to do with how well I carry the actual Sherlock characters and how well I write my own, as those were the original goals.**

**Quite important, sixth, this is set in a vaguely alternate universe set somewhere in the middle of series two, so before The Fall but after Scandal in Belgravia.**

**And as seventh, possibly the most important warning in the history of warnings, I have no clue what the hell I am going to do with pairings. I may have Johnlock (though it might not be a central thing), I may have Sherlolly (again, not central), heck, I might even get Irene in for a go. This means that Sherlock's relationship with my OC might not actually be romantic, though, as with any ship you can imagine in the Sherlock universe, it might happen. Unless you hate that idea. Give it a few weeks though, it might grow on us.**

**Also, some technicalities here, it's rated T for language and sensitive themes (alcohol abuse, talk of gang violence etc) if the majority of people want me to, I can bump it up to M and have some pairings get _really_ real, but I don't know. I might be awkward writing it. haha**

**/end tediously long authors note**

* * *

Cassie groaned as the taxi rolled over another speed bump, her eyes clasped tight shut and her fingers clutching her stomach. Her skin was deathly pale and her brow was creased with the effort to not hurl the contents of her stomach onto the back of the cab driver's head.

Her hair was a coal black, the kind you see spread across the sky at night, or the kind you smear across your toast in the morning, if you're the type who likes marmite. Most of the colour was already drained from her face due to the unbearable car sickness, but she hardly ever had much colour in her cheeks, anyway. Sometimes her face would flush pink when embarrassed or drunk, but rarely for any other reason. Her eyes were large and well shaped, a deep, spiralling grey, though her lips were thin and pale, almost dead looking.

She opened one eye, a hand straying from her stomach to the bottle laid half empty on the seat next to her. She unscrewed the lid with shaking hands and took a swig, rinsing the clear liquid around her mouth, her face only flinching into a wince when she swallowed.

"That won't settle your stomach, mate." The driver said, his voice thick with a London twang.

"Yeah, but your driving is hardly working miracles, either." She said, her voice thick not with any noticeable accent, but instead with the lingering zing of each and every swig of vodka she had taken throughout the years.

"My driving won't kill you." He grunted, his words coming out louder than he expected, meaning for her not to hear.

She winced, her already thin lips pursed. It was things like that she hated, things that people thought she was somehow immune to. She didn't want to waste her life away. It was just a shitty choice back when she was a teen that spiralled into... Well, into her.

"Anywhere here is fine." She said, the her seatbelt clicking out of it's socket as she shuffled her back a little straighter, tucking the bottle into her hoodie pocket.

The cab juddered to a halt, the tire brushing against the slabs of the curb.

"That'll be seventeen quid, miss." He said.

She got out of the cab, one hand leaning on the car door and the other feeling around her pocket for her purse.

"Seventeen, yeah?" She asked, her fingers filing through the twenties and tens to find a suitable amount. "Three pound tip." She smiled politely, handing over the money.

He accepted it without comment, the only response a slight nod and then rolling up the car window. As she stepped out of his way, the engines of the car began to roll into action, the wheels turning and the cab trundling off with nothing but scattered stones and tyre marks to show for it.

"221B, 221B, 221B..." She repeated the numbers over and over, as though saying the words would help speed up the process of finding the right door among a sea of other doors. This was why she hated streets, all houses in a little row. She would never admit it, but she missed the comfortable house in the countryside, the one with crumbly white bricks and winding ivy using said bricks as a ladder, the house she grew up in but never called home.

"221B." She said, as though settling an extremely drawn out argument.

She raised her hand and knocked gently, so gently it was hardly audible over the crisp wind, half hoping no one would hear. Though, none the less, within a few minutes a woman with whispy, hay like hair and one of those faces that just won't stopped smiling, a woman who she knew as Mrs Hudson, opened the door, just as she knew she would.

"Hello, love! You must be Cassie." She said, all smiles and well coordinated dress lipstick combinations. "I've heard so much about you. Kettle's just boiled, making tea for my boys upstairs."

Cassie smiled politely, nodding to every word she said as if some sort of disciple. She followed her into the kitchen, only listening so barely that she could string together a conversation.

"You have kids, then?"

"Oh, no." She said, pouring out some of the freshly boiled water into a mug. "They're far from brothers, those two. Do you take tea or coffee? I'll make you one now, but I'm not your housekeeper, mind."

"Tea, please." Cassie said.

"I'm more of a tea person myself, but the boys both have coffee. Sugar for Sherlock, none for John." She poured some more mugs full, slipping tea bags into two and gently pushing other under the coffee machine. "Is it racist to say they don't like black?"

"No." Cassie said, somewhere between laughing and uncertainty. "I'm pretty sure if you're still talking about coffee, it's fine."

"Here, I'll just show you to your room." She began to shuffle her out of the kitchen, agonizingly slowly, though Cassie made no comment, knowing she had difficulties with her hip. Cassie followed, matching every single footstep , concentrating more on which floorboards creaked rather what Mrs Hudson was saying.

Before she knew it, they had made their way to a small room furnished with nothing but dustings of cobwebs and the lingering stench of damp. "Sorry about the smell, it just won't go. We cleaned out the damp months back, but it's like an infestation. The small that is, not the damp."

"It's fine."

"If you need any furniture, I have some left by old tenants in the back room. I would say no smoking, but Sherlock pretty much ruined that rule a few months back. I'd also say that I'd appreciate quiet, but what with all the gunshots..."

"Gunshots!?"

"Sherlock." She said, shrugging as if he was one of the many mysteries of the world.

"That's a funny name. Sherlock." Cassie said, testing the word on her lips.

"An even funnier man," Mrs Hudson said. "I'll sent him over to see you later." She paused looking Cassie up and down. "Prepare yourself, though. He's a bit... Different."

Cassie laughed, allowing her minimal luggage to drop from her shoulders to the floor. "Aren't we all?"

"Not quite like Sherlock, though." She stepped out of the room, though lingered by the door way. "You'll soon get used to him, and John's lovely. The men from the furniture place called, your stuff will be here later."

"Thanks." Cassie smiled, somewhat grateful for the conversations close.

"I'll leave you to it, then." She smiled, closing the door gently behind her.

"Thanks."

Cassie sighed, allowing her back to rest against the wall. As she stared into the damp and peeling wall paper, she began to slump to a sitting position, her back slowly sliding down the wall until she was able to comfortably rest her chin on her knees.

She still missed that comfortable house in the country.


End file.
